I made this creature

Ada is a funny creature. She's never been much of a snuggler, though she's getting more and more lovey as she grows. We've both been a bit sick for the past several days and yesterday I tried to put a stop to it all. Rest. Rest. Rest.

At least rest for Ada. She has taken to a silly habit of not being content to simply lie next to me in the bed, she must be on me. And not just on me, her head must be resting on my face. As in squarely on my cheek. And she plops it down rather roughly so if I'm not prepared and haven't positioned my face properly, she smashes my nose with her fuzzy noggin and rubs it around until my face is turned.

Needless to say this does nothing for my ability to rest with her.

I think we're on the mend (hopefully).

I have been joking with strangers lately when they comment on how fearless Ada is that is almost too fearless. Non ha paura di niente. Forse ha troppo coraggio!  I tell them. She runs up to any dog (including the gross one-eyed nasty we practiced being "soft" with at the park last week) and puts her hands right up in its face. She runs up to ledges and peers mischievously off the edge. She tries to scale everything in sight. Stranger danger has been replaced with "Hello, what's your name? I'm Ada and I'd like to sit on your lap."

But I found a weak spot in her intrepid nature: She bursts into tears—sad, big, scared tears—whenever I blow my nose.

Is it bad that I waited until she was nearby to double-check? As soon as I began the first blow, her lip quivered, her chin bunched up, her eyes got big and anxious and by the second blow the tears cascaded down her cheeks.

Oh those cheeks. I think I'll go kiss them now.